


Project Dog Park

by moon_custafer



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: AU, Inspired by Welcome to Night Vale, M/M, period-typical smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-31 07:16:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 16,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_custafer/pseuds/moon_custafer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>nightvalecommunitykink prompt: WWII!AU. </p>
<p>Dr. Carlos Romero is recruited to the Southwest's *other* top-secret U.S. Government research base....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dr. Romero had been more accustomed, of late, to a lab coat than to a suit jacket, and he fidgeted uncomfortably and worried that his tie would somehow manage to fall into his coffee cup as he waited in the side-street café. Still, he hadn’t dared look anything but his best for what was, to all intents and purposes, a job interview. The miniature cowbell that hung in the doorway tinkled as another customer came in – Romero glanced up and then rose politely for the tiny old lady with the discreet insignia pinned to her lapel.  
“Colonel.” Colonel Josephine Harding narrowed her eyes and Romero wondered for a moment if he’d committed some offense.  
“I know perfectly well,” she said firmly, “that everyone in the field calls me Old Woman Josie. You may do likewise for all I care.” She shook his hand, and they sat down at the little table he had taken. The waitress, when she came to refill his coffee cup and take the Colonel’s order, looked mildly shocked by the pair. She had previously been, if anything, a little too attentive in refilling Romero’s coffee cup, and the scientist, who was not unaware of his good looks though out of some perverse sense of pride he put as little effort into them as decency would permit, wondered if she now thought he was the old lady’s lover. A gleam in Col. Harding’s eye suggested she too had noticed the waitress’ discomfort and found it amusing.  
“I have bad news,” said the Colonel when the waitress had moved away, “and I have good news.”  
“I noticed you placed the bad news first.”  
“It’s pretty bad. Dr. Romero, your record shows you to be one of the finest minds currently working in physics, and every one of your colleagues speaks highly of you as a scientist and as a human being. Unfortunately, Colonel Carlsberg has some kind of stupid race prejudice against Mexicans. I even tried pitching our Government’s Good Neighbours policy at him, may the angels forgive me, but the blowhard is bright enough to know the difference between Mexico and South America, worse luck. ” Romero felt his heart sink. Col. Harding eyed him, sizing him up, he felt.  
“You haven’t asked about the other news.”  
“The good news?”  
“Well... Call it modified-rapturous news. As head of the science project, I can override him.”  
“That’s positive news, isn’t it?”  
“He’s not going to like it, and he handles the practical running of the base, including security. That’s why I wanted to speak to you beforehand. Know that if I bring you onto this project, Col. Carlsburg is going to be all over you, hunting for flaws. You’ve got to be perfect, Dr. Romero, or he’ll have you thrown out and likely into prison if he can swing it. Do you have anything, anything at all in your past he could use against you?”   
Romero cast his mind back and figured no one could bring charges against him for wistful glances and the occasional erotic dream, but resolved to burn his personal diary that night for safety.  
“Nothing.”  
“And are you willing to put up with that kind of scrutiny every day and every night; balanced against your colleagues being genuinely glad to have you?” She fell silent as the waitress arrived with their coffees, and a tiny sliver of cake. “Do you like almond?” the old lady inquired, suddenly. “We can split this slice of cake if you wish. It’s more filling than it looks, you know, and I can’t finish it off myself.” In a lower tone she added; “I’m afraid I can’t give you the luxury of a long time to think this over – I’ll need to know, before your coffee gets cold, if you’re in or out.”  
Romero smiled, a genuine smile, not a job-interview one:  
“The chance to fight Hitler *and* my own commanding officer? How could I turn it down?”


	2. Chapter 2

Two days later an official telegram arrived, ordering him to report to an airfield in Phoenix and await further instruction. A second, unofficial telegram from Old Woman Josie read simply, WEAR SOMETHING DULL. Dr. Romero only had one suit, but he did his best to comply by wearing his plainest tie. He was glad enough of the suit jacket in the dawn’s chill. A vague but official-looking individual checked his driver’s license and then led him not out to a plane, but back to the parking lot, where a carefully non-descript car awaited them. The silent driver chauffeured him for hours, making two brief rest stops over the course of the day, during one one of which he unpacked a lunch and offered it to his passenger. Afterwards Romero must have nodded off while looking out at the expanse of desert, for he awoke suddenly with a crick in his neck and the sun setting again already, just as they passed a weathered roadside sign that welcomed them to the town of Night Vale. He’d never heard of the place, nor did he get to see much of it as they passed through the town and beyond into the darkened desert. At last they passed through a guarded gate and pulled up outside a building which, if it had distinguishing features, hid them under cover of darkness. The scientist staggered out of the car feeling grubby and tired, but Old Woman Josephine was waiting for him in an office that smelled of old book-paper.  
“Glad you could make it. Now, the gents’ is down the hall, I know they don’t make enough stops on that trip. I’ll still be here when you come back, and you’ll have an easier time paying attention.” Dr. Romero excused himself gratefully and ducked into the mens’ room. Washing his hands afterwards, he blinked at his reflection and observed that his morning shave had been a waste of time; after a day on the road there was a faint but noticeable shadow on his jawline; however his new boss, when he returned to her office, seemed pleased with his look:  
“By George, I think he’s done it. Stand up straight, Romero, but try not to look so damned handsome. The last thing you want to do is make Col. Carlsberg look twice.”  
“Er – is he likely to?”  
“Eh? Oh, he’s not homosexual, if that’s what you’re wondering. No, the Colonel is one-hundred-percent average American male, more’s the pity. He has no secrets in his private life, and no sympathy for anyone who does.”  
  
Colonel Steve Carlsberg had the kind of face in which every feature, pleasant enough in isolation, somehow combines into a thoroughly displeasing composition. His expression didn’t help either. Dr. Romero forced himself to make eye contact while showing as little expression as he could, guessing that the Colonel would perceive anything else as weakness. Eventually the officer grew bored with staring down the scientist, and signaled a truce with a slight relaxation of his shoulders.  
“I don’t think you’re right for this project,” he said, ‘But then I don’t think half that lunatic asylum that Harding’s running ought to be here. However, it’s not my call, as long as you don’t do anything to make it my call. Got that?”  
“Yes, Colonel.” Romero refused to think of the man as “sir.”  
“All right, get out of my office. The MP outside will escort you to the lab.”  
  
The science colonel, to Dr. Romero’s great relief, was waiting for him alone in the lab. She leaned forward onto one of the lab benches, steepling her fingers, and looked up at him with her shrewd old eyes:  
“To begin with, Dr. Romero – do you know where you have been brought?”  
“The driver took me through a small town called Night Vale. I admit I’ve never heard of the place.”  
“Very few people have, apart from those that live there. It’s not a large town, and there’s no reason you should have heard of it. Why do you suppose it was chosen for a classified research facility?” The was a pause, during which Dr. Romero realized the question was not a rhetorical one:  
“Well, the name seems appropriate. And the remote location must make security fairly easy. But I’m guessing there’s another reason, or you wouldn’t have asked in that way. Some natural resource in the area? Uranium mine?” Col. Josephine Harding smiled at him.“Not a mine; but you’re not wrong that it’s something to do with the nature of this area.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Just over twenty years ago,” Old Woman Josie continued, “a whole building -- a shoe factory -- vanished; in front of witnesses. It didn’t burn, it didn’t collapse, it didn’t explode, it just suddenly wasn’t there. The outcry led to the federal government sending out investigators. Initially they thought the incident had to have been exaggerated; and that any disappearances were the work of bootleggers, or some criminal secret society;  but they quickly realized the Sheriff’s Office, who were familiar with the local trade in bootleg liquor – reading between the lines of the report, the Sheriff probably ran the local trade in bootleg liquor – were as baffled as anyone. More than baffled, they were terrified. The G-men themselves could find no explanation for the event. The report they eventually made was classified, and a second team of investigators was sent to Night Vale. This one was made up of three scientists and an historian.”

“As you may have guessed, I was one of the scientists. The historian, meanwhile, was the one who made the most important discoveries in those early days. While we were out in the field trying to figure just exactly what it was we were trying to measure, he was in the town records and the morgue of the local newspaper, tracking the place’s history of mysterious events; which as it turned out, went back to the town’s founding, and likely earlier, based on some of the native legends of this area.”

“So the shoe factory really did disappear?”

“It was the largest such disappearance. It’s more common for individuals to disappear. Naturally, we have to go over each one and rule out foul play or intentional departure.” She sighed. “Twenty years later, about all we’ve got is a statistically elevated number of of events that might be classified as ‘weird.’ We’ve mapped the locations where they appear to group. There also appear to be far more birth defects than the natural average; we don’t know whether to classify that as a separate phenomenon. Something in the area might have teratogenic properties, or it might just be malnourishment, or inbreeding. Consequently you’ll find we have researchers from quite a number of fields here.”

“If we’re not sure what we’re looking for, why is the government even backing this horse? Some kind of FDA project to support the sciences?”

“Rumor says the government has several horses in the stable. This one’s the dark horse, but there are at least two ways we could pay off: if the objects that vanished were transported elsewhere, we could be looking at potential travel technology, at the very least. If they’ve been made immaterial, and we can find a way to reverse it -- well, that has applications too.”

“You’re omitting a third, military application -- if these objects that vanished were destroyed --” The Colonel closed her eyes.

“I’ll admit to dangling that one in front of certain parties. But we’ve found no trace of wreckage or bodies, and no release of energy. The affected objects really did disappear -- not disintegrate.” She opened them again. “Still in?” The man across the desk from her rubbed the space between his brows.

“I’m ready to work with you, m’am.” They shook hands.

“Then welcome to the Dog Park, as we’ve been code named. We’ve got a canteen where most of your colleagues are currently relaxing. It’s small potatoes for glamour, but the clientele is worth meeting.”

 

* * *

The Dog Park’s canteen was indeed small potatoes: a medium-size room full of smoke with cartoons tacked to the yellowed walls, and sometimes drawn directly upon them; in which an untidy group of individuals in distinctly civilian dress smoked and drank and talked. A darts board in the corner had a newspaper cartoon of Hitler pinned to the bull’s eye, but no one was currently playing. The talking ceased when a thin man who’d been fiddling with an ancient radio managed to coax something out of it besides static, and his colleagues grouped about the device as though it was about to start broadcasting their favorite soap opera. The new scientist wondered if an important news report was coming up; perhaps some special coded broadcast for the researchers:

 _“It’s scorching hot out there, and we are all as wanderers in Death Valley, dragging sacks of useless gold nuggets and with the inert body of our enemy handcuffed to our_ _collective wrist. But cheer up, for you have reached an oasis for the ears.”_

A murmur of relief went around the room.

"He’s back.”

“The Good Soldier Švejk of radio carries on," murmured a man who looked and sounded so like an old European professor that Dr. Romero half-suspected him of having been hired from a casting agency.

 _“I’ve been a bit under the weather the past two days, dear listeners -- the usual touch of rheumatism, but now I’m up hopping about on my red-white-and-blue striped crutch,_   _and bringing you all the news that’s fit to declaim across the ether._ ”

“Striped crutch?” The old professor looked puzzled.

“It’s from a children’s book, about a rabbit--” whispered a young woman with an orange-and-blue kerchief tied over her mousy brown hair.

“Shh!”

“ --I’ll explain later.”

The voice on the radio was a butter-smooth baritone, professional-sounding, yet with a subtly arch inflection. Dr. Romero could not decide whether he liked it or not.

_“This is Cecil Gershwin Palmer, keeping the flag of optimism flying, but flying it upside down to signal that the Allies need your help. Night Vale will be holding a paper drive on Tuesday. Boys and girls -- got comic books? Your superheroes are well aware of their own adventures, having personally experienced them -- so once you read about their exploits and committed them to memory, donate that pulp paper to the cause of fighting the Nazis! It’s only going to yellow and fall apart with the passing of the decades, if you don't.”_

“That’s….. honest,” Dr. Romero thought. “Not the best way to sugar-coat it, and yet -- why play along with the kids’ belief in fiction, if he means to be blunt?”

_"On Wednesday, the Night Vale Red Cross will be holding a Knit and Crochet Bee for the troops. Ladies, knit socks! Gentlemen, crochet undershirts! Remember the scarf you make could save a life. Or possibly take one, if used as a weapon against the enemy. I myself am working on a pullover at this very moment. I -- I think it might not have the standard number of sleeves, but I’m sure that somewhere there’s a GI it will look just perfect on. And if you’ve never learned the ways of yarn, there will be a beginner’s class._

_Say, here’s a suggestion for our scientist friends at the government installation on the edge of town: Find us a substitute for wool and cotton fibres. Possibly one spun from comic book paper._ ”

“Wait, I thought this place was supposed to be secret -- but then the townspeople can’t help but know we’re here -- they must wonder what we get up to…”

 _“And now,”_ crooned Palmer:   _“I take you to -- The Weather.”_

A laugh went around the room as a record needle hit shellac, and:

 

> _Don’t know why, There’s no sun up in the sky; Stormy Weather, since my man and I ain’t together, Keeps raining all of the time…_.
> 
>  

“At least this time Lena Horne actually does mention the weather,” the thin man grinned. “Last week it was ‘It Ain’t Necessarily So,’ right after he read a statement from the War Relocation Authority.”

“What is this broadcast?” Romero asked him over the strains of the music.

“The local radio station. This fellow’s a general favorite round here. We can’t figure out if he mixes up the music and the weather reports by accident or on purpose;  we can’t figure out how he knows as much as he does, or even whether he does--”

“Oh he does. He’s right more often than chance.” That was the young woman in the kerchief.

“And the biggest mystery,” the thin man continued, “is why the authorities let him keep talking. Last two nights we were afraid he finally had been fired, or arrested.”

On the radio, Palmer was winding down his broadcast:

_“This town was built of human strengths and frailties. It is not large, as towns go. Just outside the huddle of our homes lies the desert, built of sand and rock. It is larger than us, and it has been here longer, and it will likely be here long after we are gone. But it is not better than us. Do your part, Night Vale, and I will do mine, and the desert will do its part too, and the world will spin on. Right now our job is to rest, so we can face tomorrow’s trials with clear thoughts and fresh bodies. Good Night, Night Vale, Good Night.”_

Something about the radio host’s words, gentle, detached, Olympian, yet not without mercy, made Romero shiver even in the crowded room.

Shiver, but not shudder.

 


	4. Chapter 4

The young woman in the kerchief turned out to be one of the authors of a recent article that Dr. Romero had found fascinating; her co-author, and fiancé, had been transferred –- “I suppose I’m not supposed to say where, but well – the other project. The big one.” She sighed. “Stormy weather, indeed.”

“At least he’s not overseas. And it’s well, it’s relatively safe work. Safer than the front lines, anyway.” Her face tensed:

“Jim’s… hinted some things. Some of the stuff they’re working with there is pretty unstable.”

****

*     *     *     *     *

****

A week passed before Romero went into town. He was surprised, actually, that he and his colleagues were allowed to go at all, but the old professor (his name was Veselý, as it happened) informed him that the Dog Park was indeed one of the smaller military research projects, and that keeping it cut off from the outside world had proven unfeasible.

“We’ve found the best plan is whenever the townfolk speculate on what we’re doing, to agree with them,” he winked. “That way, if they do strike the truth by chance, they never know it.” Romero also noticed that the two MPs who’d given them a lift into Night Vale were following them in a manner that had to be deliberately obvious. “You could at least help me carry my shopping, young fellow,” said Dr. Veselý to one of them as he ducked into the local restaurant and ice-cream parlor.

“I’ll meet up with you two later,” said Romero. “I think I’d like some place a bit… quieter.” The place had been full of kids making use of the jukebox. The younger scientist strolled on through the deepening evening, gazing about the little town. It seemed peaceful enough. Once, he passed a bar where some of the base’s other MPs were drinking, and his military shadow shot him a hopeful look, but he shook his head and moved on. At last he was tempted to stop by a shabby, dimly-lit place with a handpainted sign that read RICO’S. 

It must have been a cozy place once, with its little dim lamps, but it was nearly empty. The MP sighed and took a seat at the bar, glancing pointedly at an old man nodding over his beer at the other end, then back at Romero. _Suit yourself, Gramps_ was plainly the uppermost thought in his head. The scientist himself wondered what had drawn him in. He felt vaguely conscious that it had been something he’d overheard; something that had intrigued him --

"Another one, please, Bill," and Romero, recognizing the voice, knew what had drawn him to the place. Cecil G. Palmer was sitting alone at a table rather than at the bar, examining an empty old-fashioned glass as the bartender picked up the shaker. He was entirely unremarkable, except perhaps, for his coat being a little too big for him. At the scientist’s approach the broadcaster picked up the cane that had rested, unnoticed against his seat. It did not have red, white and blue stripes. He leaned upon it and rose to his feet with a slight but noticeable effort.

“You needn’t get up on my account.”

“But it’s so hard to shake hands sitting down. You must be new to this town – and to the research project, I take it? Don’t worry, I know I’m not supposed to pry, Professor..?”

“*Doctor* Romero.”  The scientist smiled in spite of himself. Palmer’s curiosity was unmistakable, and he’d somehow neatly scurried from a promise not to pry, straight into a question, albeit an innocent one. Innocent – Palmer did possess that quality, though Romero was still unsure whether it was the genuine article. His curiosity certainly seemed to be completely real. He blinked at Romero over his glasses as though dazzled by the researcher. Romero realized he’d not only given the journalist his name, but was now sitting across from him in the booth. The bartender brought over Palmer’s old-fashioned, and asked the other man what he’d like. Romero ordered a beer.

****

*     *     *     *     *

****

“Nice quiet place, this.”

“You should have seen it before, on a Saturday night. Most of Rico’s regulars have enlisted -- the ones between eighteen and fifty, anyway. Got to say, I’m glad to have some company near my own age for a change.” He tapped his cane lightly against his right leg, and Romero heard the faint muffled clink of the brace beneath the lightweight summer cloth.

“I tried to enlist, myself,” the scientist said, and immediately wished he hadn’t -- it sounded as though he was contrasting his own body with the broadcaster’s -- but Palmer’s smile was as matter-of-fact as the stars.

“I’m sure they didn’t want to risk your brain on a battlefield. You’re needed far more where you are.”

“Something like that.” He sipped his beer. “Actually, they found a heart murmur I never knew I had. Harmless,” he added, for a slight look of concern had crossed Palmer’s face, “but it’s one of those funny things they don’t want in the army, like flat feet. Not like --” (here he nodded towards Palmer’s cane).

“Polio, yes. It’s only a limp, really, but the army doesn’t want that either. I sometimes wonder if they’re planning on starting a ballet company. They seem awfully focussed on legs.” He nodded sagely and Romero grinned, the awkwardness smoothed over. “Anyway, they tell me the radio broadcast is good for morale. At least they do when they aren’t telling me that I’ve said things I shouldn’t. I’m not sure my manner is quite up to the standards of CBS.”

“Well, it’s unique. We’ve been enjoying it at the -- at the place where I work. Not to mention the beautiful weather we’ve been having.” Palmer’s eyes widened.

“I didn’t -- oh not _again_.”

“We thought you were doing it on purpose. Weather’s hot and dry every day, anyhow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: I realized some time after posting this that I wasn't sure if polio braces were worn over or underneath trousers. A brief search suggests they usually went under the trousers on adult males, though I could find relatively few photos of such. Partly I suppose this is because an image search for "polio leg braces" naturally brings up photos where the braces are *visible* -- i.e. on women and children, because the skirts/short pants don't conceal the braces like trousers would.
> 
> Also, at least some of the images seemed to have been collected by people with a leg-brace fetish, which might have been another reason for the focus on young women.


	5. Chapter 5

Romero was now on quite friendly terms with most of the Dog Park scientists. He had learned that Old Woman Josie’s description of the project had been slightly understated: they did have some theories. Lots of them, actually. The trouble was getting any two or more of them to mesh.

“Are you familiar with what Fermi calls ‘neutrinos?’ Of course you are, don’t know why I asked. The trouble is how to find them, when pass through everything with no discernable effect. It’s a real angels-on-the-head-of-a-pin question. Anyway, Dr. Veselý thinks if we can find a way of doing so, we can at least check if Night Vale has more of them than other places, or less. Less? No, it’s fewer if we’re talking about particles, isn’t it?”

Meanwhile, Dr. Gaines (the thin man from the first night) had managed to replicate one of the disappearances, on a smaller scale, Dr. Spivey (the young woman in the kerchief) explained:

“But we still don’t know exactly _how_. We tried stimulating some of the local rocks with an electrical current, and another sample across the room vanished at the same time. But the results don’t always repeat, and we can’t figure out what makes the difference between the ones where it works and the ones where it doesn’t.” She was wearing the blue-and-orange scarf again today; Romero noticed it was a printed souvenir of the World’s Fair in New York, and recalled that she had mentioned visiting the Fair with her fiancé before the war. She lowered her voice:

“I mentioned that I wasn’t sure how safe Jim is, at the project he’s working on….the Dog Park actually did lose someone a few weeks before you started here.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“You don’t understand – she wasn’t killed – we literally _lost_ her. Col. Carlsberg’s driver, nice kid, funny name -- Danaë something -- Greek, perhaps -- in any case, Carlsberg forgot a file folder, and sent her back into the lab to get it, and the door hadn’t been locked properly, so she just walked in. And then she vanished." Her eyes grew even more serious, something Romero would hardly have thought possible.

“The thing is, I don’t believe she’s dead. We – we’ve got a bank of heat sensors, and _something_ keeps showing up on them.” Further discussion was halted by the radio:

_“Guess what listeners! Some of you are the diligent researchers at the lab outside of town! Yes, I recently learned that this show has fans outside the citizenry of Night Vale, so -- a big hello to all you kids inventing wonderful new things out there! As we all know, they’re not permitted to discuss with me any details of their work – as the town’s new motto goes, “Loose lips are quite inadequate for whistling any kind of recognizable melody” – but I **can** tell you that whomever started this notion that scientists are all brain and no brawn never met these ladies and gentlemen; there are some real lookers among them. Dr. Carlos Romero, in particular, is both suave and distinguished. **And:** he has neither confirmed nor denied that he is single -- so you may yet live in hope of catching the eye of this expert.”_

Dr. Carlos Romero stood open-mouthed longer than he would have liked at this bit of news, torn between laughter and embarrassment. Some of his colleagues chuckled, some looked concerned, and Dr. Veselý did first one and then the other.

“Col. Carlsberg is going to have six kinds of fits over this,” Dr. Spivey, said, finally.

The next morning Romero found himself summoned.

“I’ve contacted the radio station management, and I’m confident that your friend Mr. Palmer, right now, is _also_ being called on the carpet. As for you, you remain here only because one of my security men vouched that you didn’t reveal anything to that civilian.  You are, however, confined to base until such time as I believe you’ve learned not to converse with outsiders. I don’t care how rude they think you are. Pretend you don’t speak English, if you have to. Got that? Anyone off this base asked you the time of day, you non se habla Ingles, you understand me?”

“Supposing _they_ speak Spanish?”

“That sort of question is another reason you’re grounded. I will not tolerate insubordination, even from geniuses. You may return to your work.” The scientist decided that no further argument could improve the situation, and took his dismissal from the Colonel’s office without comment. As he left the room, he heard Carlsberg muttering under his breath:

“And I will not be made a laughingstock by some fruity announcer.”

With that, the scales fell from Romero’s eyes. It hadn’t occurred to him that Palmer’s interest in him might be for... personal, rather than professional reasons. That evening, he located a couple of volumes of Havelock Ellis that had somehow not been confiscated from bookshelf in the researcher’s canteen, and discreetly brought them back to his quarters.

Havelock Ellis, it turned out, was refreshingly unfazed by the topic of homosexuality; but some of his data seemed a little out of date:

 _It is notable that of recent years there has been a fashion for a red tie to be adopted by inverts as their badge. This is especially marked among the “fairies” (as a fellator is there termed ) in New York. “It is red,” writes an American correspondent, himself inverted, "that has become almost a synonym for sexual inversion, not only in the minds of inverts themselves, but in the popular mind._  

Dr. Romero tried to recall if he’d ever seen anyone wearing a red tie in a suggestive manner, and couldn’t. In his youth, any gossip of that sort had all been about men who wore bright colors _other_ than the primary three. Now that he thought of it, Palmer’s tie had been of a blue that veered towards purple. He hadn’t really thought about it at the time, except perhaps to half-notice that it suited the other man. He checked the printing date. Nineteen-Sixteen. Well, that explained why the references to clothing were a bit old-fashioned. He still wasn’t sure about the statement that homosexuals were “sometimes unable to whistle,” though it reminded him suddenly of Palmer’s quip about loose lips. He tried a bit of experimental whistling himself, and managed several bars of “String of Pearls” without mishap.

Romero had never considered himself a homosexual. He had had some close friendships with male colleagues, it is true, but they had always remained within professional bounds. It had never really occurred to him that they could exceed professional bounds. It was also true that his relationships with women had also been uniformly chaste. To be honest with himself, he had rather dodged the issue of romance by burying himself in his work, and why not? Human behavior was… inscrutable, and there were so few clearly right or wrong answers. The most curious thing in all this, the scientist thought, was that he did not find himself the least bit bothered by the possibility that Palmer might feel desire towards him. Indeed there was something endearing about the idea; and since he was unlikely to encounter Palmer again, now that Col. Carlsberg had put his foot down, it was quite safe to contemplate the possibility he might have missed out on an interesting experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The source for the Havelock Ellis quote is "Sexual Inversion, 3d ed. (Philadelphia: F. A. Davis 1915), 350–351." The line about an inability to whistle is, iirc, from "Sexual Psychology" by the same writer, but I don't have a copy handy.


	6. Chapter 6

 

Romero had a tiny room to himself, almost a monk’s cell. He smiled to himself – _hardly the most appropriate comparison, under present circumstances._ Just now the bareness of the place was glossed over by the night: the window was open to let in the breezes (he’d spent some time the previous week explaining cooling to Dr. Gaines, who'd been raised to fear night air as sickly); and the slats of the blind sliced the full moon into horizontal bars that hurt his eyes. His teeth were freshly brushed; it was not yet eleven o’clock, and he could lie awake thinking for hours if he felt like it, with no one to gainsay him. Romero’s insides fluttered a bit at the thought, and he folded his hands over his belly to calm them. He felt light and empty, awaiting the possibilities, yet feeling a bit foolish – hadn’t he left this sort of thing behind in his teens?

Dr. Romero tried to picture Palmer’s face. He found he couldn’t; but the man’s voice came easily enough to mind; and his hands. Clever-looking hands. He could see them toying with the handle of Palmer’s cane in manner that Havelock Ellis might have missed, but that Sigmund Freud would certainly have noted. Expressive hands; expressive voice; expressive face, even if the features themselves were hard to recall. There had been eyes, Romero thought, blinking inquisitively over wire-rimmed glasses. And there must have been a nose and ears to hold those glasses up. A wide, thin but not insensitive mouth. The scientist shut his eyes tighter and tried to focus. Hair? Palmer had certainly had had hair; he couldn’t remember the exact colour, but he could see the way a wisp of it had fallen across the broadcaster’s forehead. Every so often the right hand had come up to distractedly brush it from his eyes, before the shoulders had hunched as he leant forward in his eagerness to listen to Romero. The eagerness -- that was the part that had first charmed him. He could recognize it, that eagerness.

_Oh._

The familiar pang had finally struck, and Romero moved his hands further down, all the while considering this new data. So it was Palmer’s expression, rather than his looks per se, that drew him.

He wondered if Palmer might be doing the same thing somewhere in the darkened town. After all, the broadcaster must be no stranger to pouring out his yearning to the faceless universe.

_Careful,_ he told himself. _That was getting perilously close to poetry, which is not your area of expertise._ But the tingle of the cool night and the pull of loneliness were stripping off the years from his heart; aroused and embarrassed, he finished with the involuntary hurriedness of a sixteen-year-old, and lay relieved, but incomplete.  He wanted to not be alone in this bed. Clutching the pillow to his chest, he pictured himself and Palmer entwined, grasping each other’s bodies as close as they could. He could almost feel the leather and sharp metal of Palmer’s brace pressing against the warm skin of his own upper thigh. His eyes stung and a sob caught in his throat.

Experiment had confirmed the attraction, at least from his side.

Of course the experiment had to be repeatable to be valid.


	7. Chapter 7

 

"Does anyone here ever think that this place might be a decoy?,” Romero asked one day, soon after his meeting with the Colonel. “I mean, for all Carlsberg's gab, the security is pretty thin stuff. They never even made us use aliases." He’d been playing tennis with Drs. Gaines, Spivey and Veselý, and now they were drinking Coca-cola diluted with tap water (even on a government science project, the supplies had to be stretched) and a splash each from Dr. Gaines’ flask. It would make the watered-down Coca-cola taste less sickly, Gaines had said with a wink.

The Dog Park had three tennis rackets and one badminton racket; someone had chalked the outlines of a court between two quonset huts. Romero occasionally joined a doubles match -- by unspoken agreement he always paired with Gaines or Spivey against Veselý and another player, so that both sides would be equally handicapped: Veselý being old and stout, and Romero, though in good physical shape, having poor aim and a terrible backhand. Really, he preferred to get his daily exercise by walking the perimeter of the Dog Park.

The other scientists exchanged looks, and Gaines handed Veselý a dollar bill.

“We had a bet on whether it would take one month or two for you to get the joke.”

“I guess I should be relieved that your upper limit was two.”

"We’re not a joke!” Spivey insisted. “But if we **are** a decoy,” she conceded, “we'd better pretend not to know it. Otherwise we’re not much use." She shrugged. “They also serve who only stand and wait.”

“And run interference,” added Gaines.

“But what happens if we **do** hit on something that needs to be kept under wraps?”

"I personally have vowed not to discover anything that’s at all useful," Veselý declared. Romero smiled.

“I suppose pure research won’t be much help to the Nazis.” He contemplated the faint chalk lines of the tennis court. “You mentioned that you thought that driver -- Danaë -- might still be out there. Is it worth following that line of investigation?” After asking Colonel Harding about Colonel Carlsberg’s late driver, and confirming Dr. Spivey’s account of her disappearance and possible continued presence, Dr. Romero had taken up the subject with his colleagues a few times, but never as a concrete goal. “If it’s not our role to save the world, we might as focus our efforts on saving one person.”

Spivey gave the others a look that said _See?_ Then she set down her tennis racket. “I’ll get the log book.”

*     *     *     *     *

So the weeks passed, and Romero worked on different tests with his colleagues. As they advanced and discarded hypotheses, he’d explain each one in his mind to Cecil Palmer, in terms an intelligent layman would understand. Cecil was his imaginary playmate, his shadow, the angel of his better nature that sat on his shoulder. He worked late nights cheerfully, knowing that when at last he fell into bed, he had only to shut his eyes to be with his beloved.

Though confined to the Dog Park, he happily waved aside his colleagues’ acerbic remarks on Colonel Carlsberg’s punishment (both the punishment the Colonel had meted out to Romero, and the ones they would like to give the Colonel). In his mind, Cecil was always with him. When he’d say _We could try this--_ there was always another, invisible person included. When, in the evenings, he drank and talked with the other researchers, Cecil perched on an empty chair, smiling at the conversation. When he volunteered to watch an experiment while others went for lunch, Cecil stayed and sipped coffee with him.

“This may be the worst coffee in this hemisphere,” he commented, half to Cecil and half to Spivey who had returned with a sandwich from the canteen.

“It’s ground chicory, that’s why. Mind you, I suppose even regular American coffee must be a disappointment. I mean, you being from where they grow it.”

“I’m a U.S. citizen. Born in Coconino County, Arizona,” Romero answered, and wondered why Spivey was turning so very red. _Oh_ , he thought. _She didn’t mean to, but she assumed a well-educated Hispanic had to be a foreigner. From far enough away to be interesting and exotic._

_I wonder if Cecil thinks of me that way?_

_Wait - do **I** think of him that way?_

He frowned at the thought, and realized Spivey was apologizing:

“I -- I’ve just shown my ignorance, I’m afraid.”

“You’ve found out you were mistaken about something. Which is the beginning of wisdom. Now I’m worrying about what I might not know that I don’t know.” He gazed wistfully across the lab bench, where his invisible companion no longer sat. The flood of doubt had dissolved him.

Romero lay awake that night wondering whether lusting after Cecil from afar was doing him a disservice, if Cecil didn’t know about it. Well, it was certainly doing him one if he would rather be lusted after in person.

After tossing and turning, he came to three possible courses of action: 1. Stop thinking about Cecil; 2. Write to Cecil, and try to get it past Col. Carlsberg; 3. Resign his post, and write to Cecil with no one to tell him he can’t. _Well, let’s start with the least disruptive plan_.

There was a bit of string among the odds and ends in Romero’s pockets. He wouldn’t confide his thoughts to a diary so long as he was within fifty miles of Col. Carlsberg, but he decided to tie a knot each time he thought of Cecil ( _better go back to calling him Palmer_ , he told himself) and count them up up each evening, then untie them. With effort, perhaps he could wean himself off the dream.


	8. Chapter 8

By the end of the second day Romero had a piece of string so knotted it looked like a badly-crocheted scarf, and the uncomfortable feeling that Cecil was not going to be easy to let go of.

“Trying to remind yourself of something?” asked Veselý, when he noticed Romero tying another knot in the string.

“Trying to forget.”

“Ah,” said older man sadly, “That’s _much_ harder.”

“You said a mouthful.”

“A mouthful…. Of drink? It helps with the forgetting.”

“Maybe later, when I’m off-duty.”

“I shall look for you in the canteen, my friend.”

But the researcher’s canteen offered no relief, for the soft voice coming out of the radio was Cecil’s own, and Romero had to share him in silent jealousy with the rest of the room. He even snapped at Dr. Gaines when the latter twiddled the radio’s knobs.

“Leave him alone!”

“Just trying to get a clearer signal. Who’s him? Oh, the announcer.” Romero felt himself blush, but luckily Gaines took it for more anger:

“Sorry," he added, "I guess you’re not too fond of our Mr. Palmer right now.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Well, for mentioning you on air, and getting you in Dutch with Carlsberg.”

“Oh, that wasn’t the guy’s fault.  And he probably got bawled out by his own bosses.” He chided himself for losing his temper when he should have been grateful Cecil was still on the air at all.

“He says all sorts of things they don’t want him to,” Gaines agreed. “You’re the first of us to rate a personal mention, though -- you must really have made an impression.”

“Should I be flattered?”

“You tell me. Can’t fault his taste in weather, for what that’s worth. Say, some of the engineers have got an idea from his broadcast -- use sound waves to influence the weather. So far they’ve produced an unseasonable cloudburst and some tinnitus.”

“Sh, we’re listening,” someone said.

_"... Just to let you all know, listeners, I'll be hosting the war-bond drive and dance to be held eight o'clock this Friday night at the Town Hall. The music will be provided by Ramon Raquello and His Orchestra. You may recall their heroic calm a few years back, when like the dance band on the Titanic, they continued to raise spirits in New York even as the citizens of that burg were under attack from a Martian invasion force; and now they'll be playing for us on Friday --- er, I've just been handed a note._

_Hm. Apparently that Martian invasion was in fact a radio play produced by Mr. Orson Welles, and I'm not to mention it again in case I spark another panicked reaction. All right, forget what I just said about Martians. There are **no** Martians. There never were. Mars hangs desolate and safely uninhabited in our night sky. And aren't there plenty of other planets to talk about? Pluto, for instance, the littlest planet. The most recently discovered. Pluto, that new kid from down the block that no one knows very well, but who you ask to play anyway because the solar system needs a left-fielder._

_So, back to the dance: Friday night. Eight O'clock. Town Hall. Ramon Raquello. Bring your friends. Bring your best girl, your best boy, your next-door neighbor, your next-to-next-door neighbor, and that new kid from down the block who plays an adequate left field. I guarantee a fun, patriotic, Martian-free evening for all. **All** of **us**._

_Listeners, we are **all** connected. Like the shiny wrapping paper saved from Christmas gifts past, which will be used on Christmas gifts yet to come, we keep secrets for each other, and from each other. Some knowledge can help, like the location of fire exits in the Town Hall; and some can hurt, like the name of the girl you **really** wanted to take to last month's town dance, but she said she had to wash her hair, so you went with your second choice. There are secrets we should keep and secrets we should let out. The tricky part is figuring out which is which._ "

“Wonder if that last bit was a note to himself,” said Gaines. For once, the Weather was actually the weather report, and a groan of disappointment went up. Romero was silent, wondering if the announcer’s musings had instead been meant for him.

*     *     *     *     *

Josephine Harding perched behind her desk, a tiny figure of undoubted authority:

“Why don’t you start by telling me what’s wrong, Dr. Romero. This is the first time you’ve asked to meet in private since you got here, so I’m guessing it’s not for help with your homework or to pass on your compliments to the chef.”

"Colonel Harding," he began, hardly able to meet her eyes, "I no longer believe I'm the man you need for this job."

"What makes you say that?"

"I've developed feelings for.... a person. Someone outside of the Dog Park. I believe these feelings could compromise the security of my work. Even if we are an _unconventional_ defense project, I don't think you'd want me drawing the wrong kind of attention."

"Do you think this... person... can't be trusted?"

"Colonel Carlsberg certainly wouldn't think so. And you yourself said that he's head of security, and that I can't afford to be anything less than perfect."

"I may have prevaricated; there's more than one kind of perfect. It all depends upon your purpose." She smiled at him: "By coming to me, you've confirmed some suspicions I had as to your fitness. By now, I would think you've got some suspicions of your own about the Dog Park's true purpose, don't you?"

"I  _have_ wondered if we're just a decoy, meant to draw attention away from another project; but I thought it best to go along with the show."

"Would it disappoint you if we were?"

"A little, yes."

"Please believe me that no one here was chosen because of a lack of credibility. Quite the opposite. You described it as a ‘show.’ A performance is believable because of the little details. For instance, do you think there are no researchers on the other project who are struggling with  _their_ feelings?"

"No, of course --"

"And, sometimes, giving in to them?" She paused for him to catch her drift. "This person -- trustworthy? Not a spy? I want your opinion, not Carlsberg's."

"Spy, no. Trustworthy... maybe." Romero couldn't help noticing the avoidance of pronouns. _How much had Old Woman Josie already guessed about him? More than he had himself, maybe_.

"But the situation could make you vulnerable to blackmail?"

"You -- you want me to feet the enemy false intelligence," he realized.

"Something tells me you might enjoy the job." Romero's mind spun:

"Is Carlsberg in on this?"

"I'm afraid not. You'll just have to find a way to fly under his radar, while being outrageous enough to catch the eye of fifth-columnists. But you're a clever man, you'll figure something out." She stood up and he did likewise.

"Oh, and Dr. Romero," she added, just as he turned to leave: "Like I said, you're a clever man. If it were up to you to set up a decoy -- you'd make it bigger than the thing you were trying to distract attention  _from_ , wouldn't you?"


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Friday night town dance and war bond drive. Our heroes finally meet for the second time.

The Night Vale Town Hall was a not unsightly building that followed the general outlines of a Greek temple; although the Parthenon had never, so far as Romero knew, been a two-storey structure. Inside, things were more mid-Victorian; with a grand staircase, wrought-iron railings painted in the colors of slightly stale Christmas candy, and carpeting whose twisting arabesque designs and brilliant colours had mercifully been obliterated by years of foot traffic. The lights, though electric, had been dimmed out of respect for a color scheme that had plainly been conceived for gaslight.

Friday night the hall was full to bursting with townspeople. As Romero had noticed before at Rico's bar, all the males in attendance were either very young or quite old. Women and girls outnumbered them by at least two to one, but had nonetheless dressed up for the occasion; some were cheerfully making up for the shortfall in men by dancing with each other to the strains of the Ramon Raquello and his Orchestra. Though no judge of interior décor, Dr. Romero could see the mauve of the stage curtain clashed pretty badly with the red-white-and-blue of the patriotic bunting. Well, he thought, it is a bond drive, and I suppose the town did the best they could with the decorations. The band could swing, at least. 

In the end, the scientist had skipped the elaborate escape plans he'd been toying with all week, and simply climbed out a laboratory window after hanging a DO NOT DISTURB -- EXPERIMENT IN PROGRESS sign on the door and locking it behind him. Then he'd slipped out a small gate in the perimeter fence that he'd noticed on his daily walk that morning, and which had been fastened with an absurdly flimsy and easy to pick padlock. He was almost certain that neither the gate nor the padlock had existed before his conversation with Old Woman Josie on Monday.

Cecil Palmer was moving towards the stage now, to applause from the townsfolk. He really did seem to be very popular, Romero noted, resolving to make the most of this opportunity to watch the man in action. After all he could hardly approach him in person until the show was over. The announcer leaned slightly but noticeably upon his cane; otherwise, Cecil's figure, like his face, was perfectly average, neither fat nor thin, saved from the blandness of a store mannequin by the animation of his expressions and gestures. Charming the crowd like a spritely puppet, he seemed to know everyone there, and to have for each one a gently satirical quip:

"John Peters --" he greeted a tall man with a hangdog expression, "you know, the farmer?" Romero didn't get the joke, but the onlookers roared appreciatively as Peters grinned and blushed, shaking Cecil's hand. "How's that crop of imaginary corn coming along?"

"She'll be ripening along the same time as the peaches," was the farmer's _riposte_ , and the crowd laughed and cheered. The orchestra struck up a swinging version of the Anvil Chorus as Cecil mounted the stairs, falling silent as he reached centre stage.

Stepping into the spotlight, he leant forward with both hands upon his cane, now an entertainer's prop rather than a necessity. The light silvered his hair and skin, and turned his glasses to twin white discs that hid his eyes. The crowd was hushed. In that moment Dr. Romero could hear in his chest the heart murmur that had kept him out of the army.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are not safe, we have never been safe. Any belief that safety can exist is based in the limitations of our understanding. And of course we are frightened. But we are also alive, and free. We cannot remain alive indefinitely, but we can remain free by fighting anything that menaces the cause of freedom, _anywhere_.”

 “In Europe, a man spreads false and hateful thoughts into the minds of his people. Likewise in Japan. These thoughts are like an infection, threatening the whole of the human race. Until last December, there were many in this country who believed the most we should do is to lock our doors and avoid this infection. That so long as the hot soup of isolation could protect us from the influenza of Naziism and Fascism, any attempt to cure those suffering from them was a foolish and idealistic dream. Now we know that those germs can spread, even across large bodies of water. But how do we protect ourselves now? Should we quarantine the infected? Can we?"

"I say we are _all_ potential carriers -- that every man and woman here ought to keep him or herself under observation for the warning symptoms -- inactivity, loss of voice, unreasoning hate -- even as we fight our way towards the sources of the outbreaks. Ultimately, this is an errand of mercy, as well as self-preservation. Let’s not forget that.” There was a round of applause. As before, Romero was struck by the way the broadcaster didn’t sugar-coat his announcements so much as he salted and peppered them.

“Now, in a moment Mr. Raquello and his musicians will play us some more melodies, but I just want let you know that war bonds come in a variety of sizes from small to large, just like everyone here.” Cecil waved to a small child standing on a chair to see, and everyone chuckled. “No contribution is too small. If you don’t have eighteen dollars and seventy-five cents to buy a whole bond, you can buy savings stamps and paste them in your Treasury-approved stamp albums. Representatives are here tonight from our local Post Office, and of course you can always buy them after tonight if you’ve forgotten your wallets.” There was another appreciative titter.

“All righty then: Mr. Raquello -- strike up the band; and I’ll see you all later, ladies and gentlemen.” As the orchestra resumed with “Stardust,” and dancers took the floor, Cecil stepped from the dusty, glittering spotlight and vanished into the shadows at the side of the hall.

Dr. Romero squeezed past townsfolk, making his way along the walls of the room, until he came to the foot of the grand staircase and found Cecil sitting on the steps, watching the dance. He looked up at the scientist with a surprised smile.

“This seat taken?” Romero asked.

“Not at all,” came the reply. “The staircase is nearly empty. Not a popular joint, this staircase. Everyone’s over on the floor these days.” The announcer patted the step beside him, and Romero seated himself.

“The staircase is cosier,” he commented, “and the clientele is pretty classy.”

“Sure, you say that now. But just try finding a waiter.”


	10. Chapter 10

Dr. Romero’s stomach had been tying itself increasingly complex knots the closer he came to the town hall, but now that he and the source of his anxiety were sitting together on the steps like a couple of kids, watching the crowd dance, it was... nice. And calming.

He glanced over at Cecil, retracing his mental image of the man from the original model. Same bespectacled, oddly ageless face; same peering eyes whose color, beneath the changing lights, was as enigmatic as their expression. He’d wondered whether meeting again might banish feelings that had been raised in absentia, but having Cecil actually present fleshed out the dream that had formed over the past month at the Dog Park. Various books had assured him that true love would rise above merely physical passion, and though this contradicted many marriages he’d seen (beginning with his own parents), he had accepted that these ones were the exception. Now he became convinced of two things. Firstly, that he was really in love. This was it, no question. Secondly, that to express his feelings properly would take every form of communication at his disposal, including…erm… gesture.

But would the message be welcome? Though not quite a virgin, Dr. Romero suspected he had less experience in these matters than most men his age; and furthermore any advice he’d ever been given on how to read the signals presupposed that the signaler was a woman. It was quite likely that men transmitted an entirely different code. Recalling Havelock Ellis’ book, he checked the color of Cecil’s tie. Violet. Even under the shifting lights from the dance floor, it was definitely violet. The announcer caught his glance, and Romero looked down quickly, grateful the dim lighting hid his blushes, but the other man only smiled and brushed his hair out of his eyes.

“How selfish I’m being, keeping you away from the ladies,” Cecil murmured, not sounding the least bit sorry. “I’m afraid with a war on they don’t get many male dance partners these days, much less good-looking ones.”

“Not a chance. I’ve the feeling I’d be dragged onto the dance floor and never seen again.”

“Oh don’t worry. No one’s ever vanished from the _dance floor_.”

“Do people disappear often, then?”

“Well, some of them probably just want to get away from it all,” Cecil replied evasively.

“And the rest?” Here was an opportunity to sort the genuinely unexplained vanishings from those that belonged on the police blotter. After all, Cecil knew the goings-on in this town better than he or his colleagues could. The announcer glanced about, his discretion struggling with his eagerness to please.

“The most recent were Muriel Rio, Larry Leroy and Ella Smithwick.”

“Good god, three at once?”

“No, over the course of a month. And that’s unusually frequent – I wouldn’t want you to think the citizens of our fair town are constantly disappearing of the face of the earth. We hadn’t lost anyone in the previous six months – at least none that I know of – and only three people the whole year before that. Four if you count Louie Blasco, but his music shop hadn’t been doing so well of late, so it’s probable he just legged it to start over somewhere else.”

“Slow down, it’s hard to hear you over the band.”

“We could step upstairs.” They did, and ensconced themselves on a bench in the hall outside the mayor’s office. _Had there been a note of hope in Cecil's voice?_ Romero forced his mind back to the diappearances, and began again:

“Alright, so who were the three people who vanished last month?” Cecil frowned, either in disappointment or in thought:

“Muriel Rio, Larry Leroy and Ella Smithwick.  Ella was definitely a Vanishing; there were witnesses who saw her fall through a hole in a wall. Muriel and Larry were rumoured to be having a love affair, so they could have eloped – but Muriel disappeared on the 12th and Larry didn’t until the 29th, and he seemed genuinely worried about her – and he’s not a good enough actor to have been lying. In our school production of _Under the Gaslight_ , his performance was absolutely awful. _And_ he kept forgetting he was only supposed to have one arm; you should have seen him gesticulating and knocking over the scenery.”

“Er, yes. Getting back to the disappearances --”


	11. Chapter 11

“What time do you make it?”

“About half-past.”

“Damn, I have to go downstairs and beat the drums a bit more.”

“Do you mind me waiting up here? I’d like to jot down some notes.”

“Of course, Dr. Romero.”

“Call me --- call me Carlos, if you wish.” Cecil smiled and gave him a handshake that was as warm and solid as anyone could have wished for.

“I’ll be back,” he said. As the announcer returned to his audience, Dr. Carlos Romero took his notebook from his breast pocket and began to write:

_Disappearances -- 3 in the same month as Danaë? Get dates and times from C., as exact as possible._

Downstairs, Cecil had begun speaking to the town -- he couldn't make out the words, but there was no mistaking that smooth and sonorous voice. He'd be busy for a while, the scientist thought; might as well step outside for a smoke. He got up and strolled down the echoing hallway towards the fire door he'd noticed earlier. Stepping out onto the fire escape, he found it gave a fine view of the town and the desert beyond, despite being only the town hall's second floor. The incredible desert sky sparkled overhead, and from the ground the street lights winked back in reply.

The glowing tip of his cigarette had reached the halfway mark when he heard footsteps in the hallway -- not Cecil's, unless the broadcaster had suddenly ceased to limp. And had also donned a pair of high heels.

Peering around the edge of the fire door, Romero saw that a striking woman, in an evening dress that somehow managed to be severe and businesslike, was striding up and down. She too had a lit cigarette, and he felt a great relief that it would cover his own smoke from the fire escape. He felt uneasy at the prospect of having to explain his presence. The woman's cigarette, oddly enough, smelt of olives. She used a short silver holder.  

Presently, a man came up the stairs. He wasn't Cecil either; Carlos couldn't quite see his face, which seemed hidden by shadow regardless of where he stood; but he carried a briefcase and, unlike everyone else at the dance, was not formally attired. Instead he wore some sort of light-colored sports coat.

"You're late," said the woman, flicking cigarette ash at him.

"I am on time, Madame Mayor," the man retorted. "I came when I could. It was too late to be early."

Carlos remembered then that he'd heard Cecil mention the mayor of Night Vale on air; for some reason, he'd pictured her as a much older, grandmotherly type.

"Have you got it, at least?" the Mayor asked. The man held up his briefcase, then turned towards the sound of more footsteps coming up the stairs. These ones were slightly uneven, and accompanied by the tap of a cane. The jacketed man stepped into the shadow of a doorway as the Mayor turned to confront Cecil.

"Mr. Palmer, what are you doing up here?" she demanded.

"Oh, I came upstairs to look for.... someone who must be downstairs. Evidently. Sorry to disturb you, Your Honor." He glanced behind the Mayor's shoulder, but with no Carlos in sight, he gave up and slunk back down the stairs. The man in the jacket waited until he had gone, before stepping out of the shadows:

"Can Palmer be trusted?"

"He's sound," the Mayor replied, "but sometimes less than discreet." She stubbed out her cigarette on a bronze statuette of some unidentifiable creature.

"Better that than the other way around," the man observed. "Shall we?" They stepped into her office.

Out on the fire escape, his curiosity piqued, the scientist waited, but after a few minutes he realized the two were not going to return anytime soon. Hesitating between this new mystery and the one he'd been investigating, he glanced downward and saw Cecil leaving the hall. Deciding the broadcaster had the prior claim on his attention, Carlos slipped down the fire escape and fell into step alongside his friend.

"Sorry about that -- I'd stepped outside for a smoke and -- say, is there any place we can go for a drink?" Cecil's face brightened:

"Rico's is closed tonight -- Rico was at the bond drive -- but the diner should be open, They're always open. If you're alright with just coffee or soft drinks."

"It's not the booze, it's the company." Cecil's smile widened further at the implied compliment, and he steered Carlos towards a small but brightly-lit building on the corner of the next street. Carlos stomach flipped a little at how public the spot was, but didn't have the heart to argue. He needn't have worried. The place turned out to be full of dancers refreshing themselves with sodas or reviving their spirits with coffee, and two men chatting at the end of the counter drew little attention, even if one of them was a stranger and the other a local celebrity. The only comment was a "Great speechifying, Cecil!" from the waitress as she came to take their orders.

"But you weren't there, Doris."

"No, but you always make a good speech, Mr. Voice of Night Vale," the waitress grinned. "Tonight's tips will be going to the war effort, just so you know." They ordered coffee and a slice of apple pie apiece.

"Getting back to the Vanishings" (Carlos had decided not to mention the Mayor and her mysterious visitor for now), "you said Muriel disappeared on the twelfth and Larry on the twenty-ninth of March?" He took out his notebook. "Any idea of the times of day?"

Cecil frowned in concentration and stared at a spot on the wall behind the counter. Carlos, recalling this behaviour from a college roommate who used to need to look at something blank so he could picture the answer to a question, waited patiently.

"Muriel was last seen the night before, but the morning's newspaper was on her kitchen table, so she had to have brought it in. And her neighbors said she usually got up around a quarter to seven in the morning, so she must have vanished between then and eight o'clock, when she didn't show up at her job at the Cactus Rose Beauty Salon." He took a thoughtful bite of his pie, and concentrated again. When he'd finished swallowing, he continued: "Larry lived with his folks. According to them he went upstairs to his room about three o'clock on the twenty-ninth -- it was a Sunday -- and never came down. When he didn't come to supper they got worried and broke down his door, only to find the room empty."

"Any chance he could have climbed out the window?" Carlos asked, recalling his own adventure of earlier in the evening.

"He never had a head for heights," said Cecil, shaking his own sadly.

“There was a third Vanishing that you said had witnesses --”

“Poor little Ella Smithwick -- fell through a hole that opened in the wall of her classroom.”

“Outer wall or inner wall of the building?”

The broadcaster reached for Carlos’ notebook and began drawing maps.

By the time he’d done, they’d both finished their pie and were sipping second refills of coffee. Carlos noticed the crowd had thinned, and glanced at his watch:

“Lord, it’s after midnight. I’m sorry to have kept you talking all night about this instead of -- more enjoyable things.”

“Glad to be of help. And it was good to see you again.” Their waitress was at the other end of the counter; Carlos dared lean a little closer to Cecil;

“I’d like to keep seeing you. Only -- don’t mention us on the radio, will you?”

“I’ll be as quiet as the grave -- allowing for the fact that other people have been walking by all evening, so, um, a grave in a popular spot?” Carlos put some money on the table for his pie and coffee and mindful of the waitress’ words, left a generous tip.

“It’s just that -- “Father” doesn’t know I’m out tonight.” He winked. To himself he thought, _But “Mother” held the gate open for me. What has she got me into?_


	12. Chapter 12

Morning found Carlos nursing one of the canteen’s half-chicory-half-coffees, trying to look like a man who hadn’t walked five or six miles of desert highway during the night -- Cecil had driven him partway back to the Dog Park, but Carlos had insisted on being dropped a half-mile off:

“I don’t want either of us in trouble. I’ll find some way of getting in touch.” Now he was musing on how to keep this promise. There were no nearby farms whose mailboxes he might subvert.

“All-nighter?” Gaines folded himself into the nearest chair and grimaced at the drink in his mug.

“Couldn’t sleep anyway.” That much was true. “And no, that’s not real coffee.”

“Well, let’s hope it does the trick. Some big manufacturing concern has sent a representative here on a fact-finding junket. Their contributing to the funding of this place, and want to see how the money's being spent.”

“I thought we were a closely-guarded secret.”

“Apparently this fellow has connections. Enough so that even Carlsberg wants to show us off. Better shave before you head back to the lab.”

“Thanks for the tip.” As Carlos rose to go, Gaines touched his arm:

"See here -- won’t you let us in on what you’ve got going? You were locked in the lab all Friday night and you never answered Spivey's knocks." The other scientist closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Come to the lab. But I warn you, I’m still getting it all in order in my own mind.”

* * *

It was afternoon -- Gaines and Spivey had gone for lunch, while Carlos was beginning to feel his lack of sleep -- before Carlsberg showed the honoured guest to the lab where he was working. Hollywood handsome, the exec was a tanned athlete in a perfectly-cut gray flannel suit. Carlos wondered if he too had a heart murmur keeping him out of the army.

“Dr. Romero?” Carlos realized with a dreamy astonishment that the Colonel was actually doing his best to sound civil: “This is Mr. Saint-Rex -- he’s a junior exec with his father's company, Saint-Rex Industries, one of our partners. Our biggest partner, actually. Dr. Romero is one of our most inventive thinkers, Mr. Saint-Rex.” He glared sideways at Carlos as though daring him to come up with something.

“Science shoulders arms,” said Saint-Rex, cheerfully pumping Carlos’ hand.

“Beg pardon?”

“I mean the important part scientific research is playing in our war effort, Dr. Romero. For all the Americas.”

“Er, I’m from Arizona. U.S. Citizen.” Saint-Rex smiled broadly. His grin were like an ad for some powerful new dentifrice.

“Of course you are, of course. I’ve just seen the World's Mightiest Laboratories; now I’ve come to see the Little Laboratory That Could.” Although he looked nothing like Cecil, Carlos had a strange feeling Saint-Rex was a funhouse-mirror image of the local radio host -- he certainly had the same love of elaborate phrasing.

“Well, I fear my department at least may disappoint you. We’ve simply been investigating a phenomenon of the area.” He shot Carlsberg a defiant glance: “With the help of a local journalist. But I think we may need to halt our experiments for reasons of safety.” Picking up one of the notebooks, he showed Saint-Rex the data he had collected with Gaines, Spivey and Veselý, demonstrating the electrical currents used, the samples that had been made to vanish, and, pencilled in earlier that morning, the correlation between their experiments of the 12th and 29th of March, and the disappearances of Muriel Rio and Larry Leroy on those same days (Ella Smithwick had not fit the pattern, and he was still trying to work that one out). “Also--” he pointed to the notes for the 15th of the same month-- “We lost one of our own employees here.” Col. Carlsberg’s face was white and speechless. Carlo pressed on while the silence remained: “I’ve been trying to work out how to get her, and the townspeople, back.”

“Dr. Romero. You have not kept me informed of these developments.” The Colonel had a dangerous expression.

“I’m sorry, Colonel, but they are the product of last night’s research,” (True.) “And we hadn’t had time to write them up yet.” (Also true.)

“Well.” Saint-Rex eased his lithe, tailored body between the other two men. “I think this calls for further investigation. And increased funding.”

“But also greater caution. We were trying to act on small rock samples within the lab, and we’ve endangered the civilian population.”

“Of course we’ll want to move cautiously. But, given how promising this looks, with all speed. Congratulations. Colonel, you’ve chosen your men well. And women,” he added, as Dr. Spivey opened the door and stopped in embarrassment.

“It’s all right, Spivey, I was just telling them about our breakthrough.”

* * *

Despite this, Carlos felt uneasy as he and his team -- for officially or not, they were _his_ team now -- clinked glasses that night in the Dog Park canteen.

“To Saint-Rex Industries!”

“To the look on Carlsberg’s face, when he restored your visiting privileges.” That was Gaines. Carlos smiled, but wondered how these new developments would affect the other Colonel’s plans.

“To the discovery of Danaë and the others,” he said quietly. “Alive, if possible.” The radio crackled:

_“Good-evening listeners! Hope you enjoyed your supper -- and if you didn't, well, Night Vale Radio has an announcement -- we've prepared a pamphlet of meatless recipes to help you make the most of those red points! Let's see, the recipes include "Potato Sandwich Spread," “Ring O’ Plenty” -- that’s made with macaroni -- "Mock Haggis," "Fried Mock Oysters," -- mm, that sounds tasty -- uh, "No-Meat-Loaf." Oh! There's a chapter called "Ten Things to Do with Tallow."  Just write us here at the station to get this useful booklet with the compliments of myself -- Cecil G. Palmer. If you’ve forgotten our address, it’s 19 Orobouros Street, Night Vale. Address it to Cecil Palmer, care of NVCR. And if you like, send me your own ration-stretching recipes -- if I use them on the air, I’ll send you... (there was a sound of rustling paper) ...er, a coupon for yeast! Good at our local grocery store. Yeast! Good for internal health!”_

Carlos smiled at this opportune radio contest -- Cecil’s idea, or he missed his guess. At the same time the memory of Saint-Rex’s manner bothered him. More than ever the executive seemed like a gilded and heartless imitation of Cecil’s madcap calm. Out loud he asked:

“Anyone for yeast?”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I took so long to update -- got a bit side-tracked.

Carlos stared down at the blank sheet of paper on the spartan, modernist writing desk in his room. Dr. Veselý, who was a man of surprising information, had supplied him with a recipe to copy into his own hand and send in to the radio station. The question now was how to insert a message to Cecil, as the announcer had no doubt intended for him to do when he'd put out the call for recipes. No, the real question was what to say to Cecil. There was so much he wanted to tell the man, and even if he could put his feelings into words, so much that was unsafe to say. Sighing, he set down the pen and looked at his watch.

They were showing a movie in the canteen that night, as they did once a month. Carlos wondered sometimes if the theatre in Night Vale ran the same pictures, or if the Dog Park ordered theirs in separately. Certainly, theirs never seemed to be very new. The movie had already started when Carlos quietly entered the darkened canteen and set down in the back row of the chairs that had been set up. On-screen, a clown was reading the palm of a beautiful circus _artiste_ :

"Am I lucky?" she asked him. Carlos identified her after a moment as Maureen O’Sullivan.

  
"Yes, lucky," murmured the clown, and Carlos recognized Charles Laughton’s voice. The camera focussed in on his broad, painted face, as the expression in his eyes shifted: "This line here —" he hesitated. The girl tried to joke:

  
"The stars are talking." The clown blinked at her solemnly:

"Yes." His beautiful voice rolled on wistfully: "Their rays are pale, and their shadows slip by, like the ghosts of dead virgins — their spell is upon you." He glanced at her palm again, fighting back tears: "You shall live eternally."

_Oh right_ , thought Carlos, _this is the remake of **He Who Gets Slapped** , from -- quite a few years ago, now._

“I saw it on stage, once,” whispered Veselý suddenly. “Just after the last war. Before it was translated into English, of course.” Spivey nudged him in the ribs and he said no more. Carlos continued to ponder what he should write to Cecil vs. what he wanted to. _I want to kiss you till our mouths are bruised. I want you to sink into me like a sofa._ Gradually, though, he became caught up in the painted circus drama -- mannered, poetic, deliberately artificial -- as it unreeled on the screen above the silhouette of Veselý’s balding head. There was a lady lion-tamer, too, in this circus. Torn between love for her ringmaster husband and the deadly thrill of working with the lions. There were two younger clowns whom Carlos suspected were meant to be more to each other than just colleagues. Maureen O’Sullivan was partnered with a handsome acrobat, but her father was dangling her before a wealthy patron. All the while the clown, “He-Who-Gets-Slapped,” watched everything from behind his paint. He was smitten with the girl, of course. And couldn’t say so, of course. He had some complicated history where he was really a scientist whose research and wife had been stolen by a rival. Carlos wondered whether he ought to consider such a career switch. Cecil could come with him and be the ringmaster.

He looked back at the movie screen: Laughton and O’Sullivan had drunk poison. O’Sullivan was dying under soft lighting while he crouched at her side. Offscreen, the rich patron shot himself. At the sound, Laughton struggled to his feet:

"You loved her so much, Baron?” His eyes gazed, blinkingly, into the spotlight above the ring. “So much? And you want to be ahead of me, even there? No! I am coming. We shall prove, then, whose she is to be -- forever!" And he fell back, face transfigured in death. It was corny, but genuinely touching.

Afterwards they turned up the lights -- too bright now -- and poured out drinks.

“How’s the letter coming, Romero?” Gaines asked. Carlos shrugged.

“I can write a paper on atomic structure, but I can’t seem to compose a simple request to help us collect data.”

“Just write to him like he’s a fellow-scientist,” Spivey suggested.  

* * *

 

Beef Goulash

_3 oz. oil or fat; 1 1/2 lbs. stewing beef, cubed; 2 lbs. finely chopped onions (the onions are the thickening agent); 1 pint beef broth or water; 2 tbsp. tomato puree; 3 tbsp. paprika; 1 tbsp. vinegar; 1 teaspoon ground caraway; 1 teaspoon fresh chopped garlic; 1/2 teaspoon thyme; 1 teaspoon majoram; 2 bay leaves; salt and pepper_

_Heat the oil in a medium sized pot and brown the beef cubes. Add the onions and cook them with the meat until transparent. Add everything else, then enough water to fill up the pot. My colleagues want to meet you. I have permission to come into town. Bring to a boil at the Moonlite All-Nite Diner, then simmer for 2 hours p.m.). Tastes best the day after Tuesday next._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently there really was some talk of remaking He Who Gets Slapped in 1935, but it never happened. I figured that since I'd already made Raymond Raquerro's Orchestra non-fictional in this AU, I might as well indulge myself in this matter as well.


	14. Chapter 14

Tuesday afternoon, a week on, found the four scientists squeezed into a booth at the Moonlite All-Nite Diner.

“Will there be room enough for Palmer when he gets here?”

“Gaines could come over to our side. He is not a large man.”

“Hey!”

“We shall pull up a chair,” said Carlos with as much solemnity as he could muster, faced with the thought of poor Spivey sandwiched between Veselý and Gaines, “to the end of the table.” In the front, the door swung open and Carlos heard the tap of Cecil’s cane. He sprung to his feet to fetch a chair, with a little more eagerness than he’d planned to show -- but his colleagues, used to all kinds of social eccentricities in their midstl and in any case, were all busy leaning across the crowded table-top to shake the broadcaster’s hand, delighted to finally but a face to the voice:

“You’re taller than I pictured you.”

“He’s shorter than I pictured.”

“Romero never favored us with a description, so I had assumed you were a translucent pink jelly, roughly 50 kilos in mass.”

“Oh,” Cecil replied cheerfully to the last comment (Dr. Gaines’), “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Do you know, he actually does?” They all laughed. They all sat down. The waitress appeared, refilled their glasses and took Cecil’s order (a rice pudding). When she’d gone, Carlos introduced Cecil round the table and updated him on the situation, so far as security would allow:

“So you see, we’d like to work with you to try and understand these local phenomenae -- the disappearances in particular.”

“Off the record, we’re worried the recent ones might be our fault --”

“Actually this is all off the record -- I’m afraid that’s a condition we can’t waive -- so if secrecy goes against your journalistic integrity or something, better to find out now.”

“I do understand that there are some stories that I can’t run – for the sake of national security, or to protect the reputations of the innocent.”

“This would fall under the former category.”

Cecil nodded, and the meal thereafter seemed to fly by with an odd disjointed swiftness as the scientists explained, as best they could, their experiments with the rock samples and the electrical currents; and pressed the reporter for any more details he could recall about the local mystery. Cecil frequently had recourse to his memorandum-book, while Carlos recorded everything in his own log. A couple of times, Cecil simply laid his own notes on the table for Carlos to transcribe directly; and on one of these occasions the scientist smiled to recognize a little drawing of himself (and a good likeness it was too) doodled in the margin of the page.

The waitress brought the cheque on a little tray, with four fortune cookies beside it. Carlos picked up the paper, examined it, and placed a dollar-fifty on the table.

“Why fortune cookies?” he asked. “I mean, this isn’t a Chinese restaurant, so far as I’ve noticed.”

“It used to be,” Cecil explained, “and they’ve kept up the tradition. By popular demand.”

“These cookies aren’t an American dish?” Vesily asked, surprised.

He picked his cookie up by one corner and pulled out the little slip of paper, then got out his glasses to read it as he munched reflectively on the dry pastry.

 

“There’s only four.”

“Mr. Palmer and I can share one.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I went on hiatus for so long -- I got distracted by a couple of original fic ideas, plus a short Gilbert and Sullivan fanfic today. Anyway, I'll try to get back on track, though my updates may be slower than they were.

The four scientists and Cecil had left the Moonlight All-Nite Diner, and were making their way towards the car where the MPs who’d brought them into Night Vale were seizing the chance for a last smoke before four more people piled into the vehicle and packed it too tight for breathing.

Carlos and Cecil dawdled behind, using the latter’s cane as an excuse to walk even more slowly than old Veselý. The announcer pointed to a flat-roofed adobe house with a yucca plant growing in the front yard.

“That’s where I live,” he said. Then :“Supposing, on one of these trips into town, I were to invite you, and only you, in for a coffee - would it be understood as just coffee, or would more be implied?”

After some consideration of the participles involved, Carlos answered: "If the offer of coffee included another, implied offer; then, of course, that offer too would be welcome." Cecil, shook his hand warmly:

“Then I look forward eagerly,” he said in a low voice, “to your solo visit.”

* * *

 

It turned out to be far easier than he’d anticipated. A week later, Veselý and Spivey insisted they both had shopping to do, and that they’d meet up again with Carlos and Cecil in an hour’s time. Carlos wondered to himself how much they knew, and if they too had instructions from Old Woman Josie.

“Well then….” Cecil smiled as they waved goodbye to the two scientists, “Coffee?”

The interior of the radio announcer’s house proved to be a mix of overstuffed Victorian furniture, southwestern rugs and hangings, and posters for concerts sponsored by the radio station.. It had something of the same shabby-comfortable feel as the Dog Park's canteen. In a corner, Carlos noticed an old photo of a woman with two little boys. The smaller one had Cecil's grin. Neither wore a leg brace.

"You have a brother?"

"Had."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"I was too young to really remember him. It must have been much harder on my mother." Carlos looked at the picture again. He wondered what had happened, but Cecil's tone had suggested that the matter was closed.


	16. Chapter 16

Cecil herded the scientist over to a sofa with ball-claw feet, and announced he would make coffee. Ducking into the kitchen, he returned, after a minute of clattering and splashing, with a vacuum pot. He cleared some magazines off a table, set up the device, and carefully lit the tiny alcohol burner. Carlos smiled to see the seriousness with which he performed the ritual, like a wizard preparing to invoke spirits of the air.

“Look at you.” Cecil raised his eyes:

“I’d rather look at you.”

“Well, fortunately the two activities aren’t mutually exclusive.” Carlos tendered a hand, and the announcer took it shyly and sat down beside him. They grinned dopily at each other like a couple of of moonstruck kids. At last Carlos leaned in and gave Cecil kiss that, though brief and gentle, left the other man’s eyes huge and alight like Japanese lanterns on a summer night. He touched the scientist’s cheek as though testing to see if he were quite real. The water in the lower part of the coffee maker had reached a boil and its level swiftly dropped as it traveled up the glass tube to the upper globe to mix with the ground coffee. Cecil turned off the alcohol lamp, but his mood seemed to have shifted, for he changed the topic, though he remained snuggled against Carlos’ side:

“Any break in the investigation of the disappearances?” he asked. Carlos draped his arm about the other man’s shoulder. This wasn’t a topic he minded discussing, especially since Cecil seemed happy to mix pleasure with business:

“We’ve confirmed that the dates line up,” he said, “and we’ve checked the location of each one against the location of the sample in the lab that appears to have triggered it. It – let me get a piece of paper. We think there’s a sort of pattern.” Carlos leaned over the cluttered table and sketched a rough map. “See,” he said, "here are where the samples are stored in the lab. And here are the locations of the disappearances. Notice anything?” Cecil examined the scrawl, absently brushing his hair from his eyes.

“The samples….” he began uncertainly, “--are like a map of where the disappearances happened?” Carlos grinned and nodded vigorously.

“The position of the samples, relative to each other, and of the disappearances, relative to each other, is the same. But the scale is different. From this we might be able to predict where a disappearance zone will form when a sample is stimulated.” The vac pot was cooling and the lower globe was beginning to fill with coffee. Cecil removed the top part of the device and poured Carlos a cup.

“But what about the girl who disappeared from the lab itself?” he asked, pouring one for himself. Carlos took a sip -- it was a strong, dark, but clear brew.

“Still working on that one. It’s possible the range of the disappearance zone depends on how much current is put through the sample.”They continued to discuss Danaë’s disappearance and what it meant for the overall pattern. Halfway through his cup of coffee, Cecil suddenly asked:

“Did the colonel get another driver? I suppose he had to. But was he upset over her?” Carlos frowned suspiciously:

“You don’t think he had something to do --”

“No, no.” Cecil set his cup down. “Just that it must have been rough on him. To lose an assistant like that and not to know if she’s alive or -- sorry, I’m getting distracted from the big picture.” He lowered his eyes to the Navajo rug under the table. “You know that saying about how stupid people discuss Things, average people discuss... other people, and smart people discuss Ideas? I always wondered how smart people managed to do that without taking people or things into account. I mean, we’re talking about this phenomenon, but I can’t help talking about Danaë, too. How do you and your fellow scientists manage? Do you just speak in numbers?”It took Carlos a moment to realize his friend was serious; that he considered himself of lesser intelligence because he was more concerned for the missing driver than for the abstractions of how she had vanished.

“Cecil.” He took the broadcaster’s hand and pressed it to his lips. “We don’t only talk about ideas. That would make about as much sense as saying mediocre sentences contain nouns, good sentences contain verbs, and great sentences are all adjectives. Wisdom has to consider everything. Danaë is just as important as anyone, and anything else. So are the people from Night Vale who disappeared. They’re not just side effects or evidence; finding them is the goal.”


	18. Chapter 18

Carlos sat up suddenly and checked his watch.

“Veselý and Spivey -- we were supposed to meet them at the diner in an hour!” Cecil swore, startled, and Carlos laughed in spite of himself to hear such language uttered in the announcer’s mellifluous voice. “Don’t worry,” he said, “if we’re a few minutes late -- knowing Veselý, he’s playing the jukebox, Spivey’s making sure he doesn’t actually try disassembling it and their guard is desperately trying to pretend he doesn’t know either of them. Speaking of, do you think ours is still hanging about in your front yard?” Cecil drew the curtains a half-inch and peeped through.

“Still there by the yucca plant -- I really should have offered him a drink. Hang on, I’ll pull one from the icebox before we leave.” He vanished into the kitchen again and there was the creak of a heavy door, like a radio sound effect.

A few minutes later the two men and their shadow were walking up to the diner. The MP dropped his empty cola bottle next to the sidewalk. Cecil stopped and turned:

“You -- soldier!” He commanded. The man stopped. He was used to taking orders, but not from civilians. Cecil continued: “Yes, you. Pick that up. Do I go out to _your_ base and throw empty bottles on the ground?” Abashed, the man picked up his trash and mumbled an apology.

Carlos tried not to grin, as he suspected Col. Carlsberg would have thrown his weight around at the sight of Cecil tongue-lashing one of his men, even if he’d have given the man hell himself for littering, and in much harsher terms.

The scientist was still chuckling inwardly as he entered the diner and Spivey caught his eye. She looked worried. Without gesture, she darted her eyes to one side and Carlos saw Mr. Saint-Rex, regally draped upon one of the counter stools, and holding conversation with Veselý. The older man looked uncomfortable at being buttonholed by the executive, but could not get away from him. At the sight of his colleague and the radio man, however, he elbowed his glass of tomato juice in a manner that looked plausibly accidental; and while Saint-Rex was dabbing the red liquid from his magnificent grey suit, and Veselý offering flustered apologies in an accent far thicker than the one with which he usually spoke, Carlos pulled Cecil back through the door.

What happened next was inevitable. The two of them collided with Carlos’ MP -- or rather the soldier, not being aware of any reason to make a sudden stop, didn’t, and collided with them. Three men fell into a tangle of arms and legs as passers-by grinned. There was no hope of evading Saint-Rex’s attention now.

Sitting up on the ground, Carlos thought quickly. He might still be able to keep the executive from knowing how closely Cecil had been working with his little department of the Dog Park. Exactly why he wanted to keep the announcer’s involvement a secret was a mystery even to himself, especially given Colonel Josephine’s hint that she wanted him to make himself a target for blackmail; but somehow his skin crawled at the thought of Saint-Rex discovering their connection. He did not think it was jealousy. Was it jealousy? Well, he’d know soon enough. Loudly, he said:

“Palmer! Sorry, fella, I didn’t see you there!”

Cecil looked confused at his friend’s change of tone as Carlos and the MP helped him to his feet. “Are you all right? You took quite a tumble there,” Carlos continued as he picked up Cecil’s cane. He really did hope he was all right; he was unsure how fragile the man was, physically. Winking, he added “Come in and sit with me and my colleagues till you feel yourself again.” Cecil’s eyes met his and he gave a barely-perceptible nod. Dr. Romero put his arm protectively about the broadcaster’s shoulder as he walked him towards Saint-Rex and the scientists. “Look who I ran into,” he boomed cheerfully. “It’s Night Vale’s favourite radio personality. Have you met Cecil G. Palmer, folks?” Taking their cues from him as he’d hoped they would, Veselý and Spivey pumped Cecil’s arm as though it was their first time meeting him.

“We just _love_ your show, Mr. Palmer,” crooned Dr. Spivey. Carlos was impressed -- he hadn’t realized she could gush when the situation called for it.

“Of course,” he added with a sly glance at the representative of Saint-Rex Industries, “We’ll have to cut out the shop talk in front of Palmer." He turned to Cecil: "I’m afraid it’s all top-secret stuff, pal. Besides, it’d bore the socks off you.”

“Well,” said Cecil. “I’ll just have to get my scoop elsewhere, then.” He proffered a hand to Saint-Rex with an amiable grin, a glance that carefully avoided the red stain on the executive's lapel, and a minute spark in his eye that Carlos had come to recognize as Cecil’s brain shifting into a higher gear. _Oh yes,_ he thought with satisfaction. _My guy is too smart to be taken in by **you** , Saint-Rex. Whatever your game is._


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inching forward a bit more.

“Hey, honey!” Saint-Rex waved at the waitress as she took the next booth’s order. When she finished and came by, he briskly ordered a soda water: “Need to get this tomato juice out before it sets. What do the rest of you want?” He grinned around the table. “My treat.” Everyone immediately buried their heads in their worn paper menus; there seemed to be an imperceptible feeling going around that they would be graded on their orders. Carlos glanced across his menu at the man the waitress had been talking to. The scientist thought he recognized the Mayor’s companion from the night of the bond drive; but he couldn’t be sure, and his meticulous soul rebelled against theorizing in advance of the data. Nonetheless, he filed the possibility away for further checking.

Cecil held his hand lightly in his left hand; with his right he drummed his fingers lightly, idly, on the edge of the diner table. _The situation really must have him spooked_ , thought Carlos. _He doesn’t usually fidget like this_. He fought back the urge to grasp Cecil’s hand -- they were, after all, not only in public but practically in the enemy’s camp.

Veselý suddenly burst out laughing; he’d a wheezing chortling laugh that was not loud, but which could not be ignored -- nor apparently controlled.

“Something funny, Professor?” asked Saint-Rex. His tone was pleasant, but Carlos wondered why the exec had address Veselý by a title he’d never known the old scientist to use. Hastily wiping away tears of laughter, Veselý apologized:

“Excuse me, my friend -- a passing thought unrelated to the conversation. Er, what is the expression in English?  My... funny bone was hit?” Saint-Rex eyed him suspiciously, before widening his mouth into a gleaming smile:

“Your sense of humour goes over my average-guy head, but then we can’t all be geniuses, can we?” He turned to Cecil: “What’s your view? As the man on the street?” Cecil gazed back levelly:

“Well, that’s a sticky point -- I’m not actually on the street; as a man in this eating establishment, however, I can tell you they have the best pie this side the Rio Grande.”

“Well, well.” Saint-Rex glowed at his fellow-diners. “Five slices of pie, then?” No one disagreed. From the corner of his eye, Carlos noticed the man in the jacket getting up from the next table and walking away. He tried to see which direction he took, but Saint-Rex was babbling in his ear, making it hard to concentrate. Indeed it was hard for him afterwards to recall the rest of the evening. Saint-Rex had dominated the conversation, that he knew for sure; but just what the junior executive had said amid his backslapping and bonhomie, was as hard to grasp as the stuff of a dream.

* * *

 

“What does the guy want of us?” he asked Spivey at breakfast the next morning. She shrugged.

“Weapons or washing-powder. Who knows? The man speaks in advertising copy, and I barely passed my English Lit. courses.” Veselý came waddling up to them with his breakfast plate and smiled at them as he prodded the powdered eggs with his fork, testing to see if they fought back.

“Your radio friend had a good look at the mysterious Saint-Rex last night,” he said. “It was not my plan -- I thought he and you might want to evade the meeting. But Mr. Palmer appreciated the chance to observe. He doesn’t like the fellow either.”

“When did Cecil -- Mr. Palmer -- tell you this?” Carlos thought Veselý was quite right in his assessment of the meeting, but Cecil had said little, except for his promotion of the Moonlight All-Nite Diner’s pie, and he could not recall him having had the opportunity to speak with the other scientists.

“Over pie. You did not understand?” Veselý looked astonished. “Does nobody know Morse code anymore?”

“That’s what Palmer was doing --” Carlos clapped his hand to his forehead. “When he kept tapping his fingers on the table, I thought he was just nervous.”

“He is clever, your friend. At first he tapped out only jokes, to see who could read him.”

“And that’s what you were sputtering about.” Veselý nodded, smiling:

“As a young man I paid for my schooling by working as a telegraph operator.”

“After he’d established only you could understand him --- did he say anything else, besides indicating his low opinion of Saint-Rex?”

 

 


End file.
